Sensory Overload
by VerityFrancesB
Summary: A series of one shots based on the 5 human senses. JIBBS
1. Authors Note

Surprise surprise, Verity has done another one shot series! Although Ellie commissioned this series based on the senses, so I cannot be held responsible.

This is for everyone who has given me lovely reviews and support, especially Ellie, Aly and Mrs Scott.

Senses are the physiological methods of perception.

There is no firm agreement among neurologists as to the number of senses because of differing definitions of what constitutes a sense. One definition states that a sense is a faculty by which outside stimuli are perceived. The conventional five senses are sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste: a classification traditionally attributed to Aristotle.

Even though there is no firm agreement on how many senses we have, I am planning to do the conventional five senses, the ones that everyone is taught at school.

Hopefully, you will enjoy!

V!

xox


	2. Touch

Touch

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Touch may be considered one of five human senses; however, when a person touches something or somebody this gives rise to various feelings: the perception of pressure (hence shape, softness, texture, vibration, etc.), relative temperature and sometimes pain.

It was like they had a mind of their own, my hands roamed endlessly over her body, making her sigh, making her bite her lip, making her fingers dig into my shoulders. I couldn't stop them, and if I was honest with myself, I didn't want to stop.

Touching her was something that I had always loved doing; she was so receptive to my touch. Hours seemed liked minutes with her skin under my fingers. It wasn't like a romance novel when "time stopped when we're together", time flew, it always did, I never seemed to have enough time, I never seemed to get enough.

I could never work out which part of her I loved touching most. Sometimes it was where her neck met her shoulders, a passing, brief touch that lingered slightly longer that usual, making her skin break out in goose pimples. Sometimes it was her stomach, I would lay my hand flat against it feeling it rise and fall with each breath she took, or clench involuntarily when my hand drifted slightly lower, or quiver with laughter. Sometimes, it was the milky smoothness of her inner thighs, skin which I prayed to God only I was allowed to touch now. I would trace patterns on them, listening to her beg for more as my fingers once again took on a mind of their own. Sometimes it was the simplest touching which drove me mad. Her fingers grazing mine as I hand her something, her lips brushing my temple when she thinks I'm asleep.

As much as I love touching her with my finger tips, I love touching her more with my mouth, bringing my lips down onto her shoulder, her neck, feeling the smooth skin beneath my lips, feeling her nipples pebble in my mouth. Feeling her lips against mine is a feeling that I am hard pushed to beat. Her lips are always so soft and warm, coaxing me to take things further, begging me to dispense with the foreplay, saying she needs to feel me inside her. Oh God and when I am inside her it drives me over the edge of madness and I swear, for a few minutes, I think I am crazy, because how sane is it to be obsessed with touching someone? Or that someone touching you?

The feel of her small delicate hand stroking my cheek, even if it is a stolen caress in a rarely deserted corridor, makes me want to push her against a wall and feel her skin under my hands, feel her heart beat hard and fast under my finger tips, feel the warmth between the thighs which I love so much, feel her breath on my shoulder and her legs wrapped around my waist when I give into temptation, who knew her skin would be a temptation to me?

Her knowing smile from the walkway above the bullpen also touches me, because I know what she is thinking, I know she is thinking of the last time I touched her, the last time I let my hands loose on her skin. But I don't need to dwell on the past; I have the rest of my life to touch her.

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_V!_

_xox_


	3. Sight

Sight

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The visual system in humans allows individuals to assimilate information from the environment. The major problem in visual perception is that what people see is not simply a translation of retinal stimuli (i.e., the image on the retina). Thus people interested in perception have long struggled to explain what visual processing does to create what we actually see.

He had always had a way of invading my field of vision, it was like he did it on purpose, and my traitorous eyes would drink in the sight of him, memorizing every curve, every wrinkle, every muscle until I knew him by heart. I hated having no control over it; I think that he knew as well which made it ten times worse. He knew that I couldn't take my eyes off him, and he used it to his full advantage, parading in front of me almost daring me to look. That was what he was doing now, taking full advantage of the fact that I was sitting on his basement steps, watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he sanded the boat.

I rubbed my temples as realization slowly crept up on me. This was all horribly familiar; I was here a lot, in the same position, sitting on the sixth step down, my feet on the seventh, elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. He knew I was there, he always knew. He didn't even have to look up, and no matter how hard I tried to be silent and stealthy, he always knew when I was there. Sometimes he didn't acknowledge my presence; he just continued to work, almost as if he was pretending that I wasn't there. Other times, he would silently smile, hand me a mug of bourbon and sit down on the step next to me, I would study him sideways on as he would smile knowingly, take my hand and lead me upstairs where I would be treated to more visionary delights. The sight of his bare chest, the sight of his hands roaming over my body and slipping between my thighs, the look in his eyes as he moved inside me, the look in his eyes as he took us both over the edge, those things would stay in my memory for the rest of my life, occasionally dancing in front of my eyes when I least expected them to, or least wanted them to.

The sight of him conjured so many conflicting emotions in me. Granted, most of them made me want to kill him, but on occasions like this, when we were both peaceful, when there was no raised voices, no icy atmospheres, when I could just sit and rememorize every detail of him, occasions like this made everything else fade into the background. The raised voices no longer mattered; all that mattered was him, working on his boat, with his hands moving expertly over it, and me, drawing in every detail.

His eyes had always fascinated me. He would stare at me silently, the intensity of his gaze almost making me look away, occasionally he would break the silence with a few choice words, or whisper my name, but we have never had much need for words. I would instinctively know what he was thinking, just like he would know what I was thinking, more often than not we were thinking the same thing. His eyes would always betray him, they showed far more emotion than his face or his voice, it was always his eyes, which is why I quite often found myself drowning in them. Drowning in the sight of him, I didn't want to be saved though, I would save myself, if I ever had the inclination to, right now I was quite happy, sitting on his steps, taking in the sight of him.

* * *

_V!_

_xox_


	4. Sound

Sound

* * *

Hearing or audition is the sense of sound perception. Hearing (or audition) is one of the traditional five senses. It is the ability to perceive sound by detecting vibrations via an organ such as the ear.

The sound of the door slamming breaks into my consciousness and I jump as he marches into my study. I look up at him, lost in his eyes for a second before I realized that he is speaking and I am dragged back to reality. Sometimes, when he looks at me, I forget to speak, I forget that he is speaking, but I have never felt much need for words with him. I usually rely on all the sounds that surround him; how hard the door is slammed is an indicationof how angry he is.

Right now, he is only mildly irritated, his voice has turned only slightly icy, making everything around him cold, everything but me. For some reason I am almost immune to his irritation, maybe it is because I have experienced the brunt of it far too many times.

It is a couple of seconds before I realize that he has finished his tirade, and I haven't listened to a word. I raise an eyebrow at him and he sighs dejectedly, the sound echoing around my study. He knows very well that I haven't listened to a word he has been saying and I see the vague amusement creep into his eyes. He lets brief chuckle escape his throat and the sound makes me relax slightly.

I haven't even bothered to ask him why he is here, and I have no idea why he is irritated but I ignore the questions that try to float to the surface and silently hand him a glass which he takes with an easy smile. He sits down on the couch in front of the crackling fire, the only noise in the room at the moment and swirls bourbon round the glass. I glance at him and wonder how long he is going to be quiet for, until I realized that it doesn't matter. It is never silent with him here, there is always the sound of him breathing, the sound of my heart pounding slightly too fast for my liking, and if I listen very carefully, I can almost hear his never sleeping mind whirring. I purse my lips in an attempt not to laugh just to break the quiet. He suddenly pulls me to him and kisses me, on my lips, my jaw, my neck; I hear his breath ragged in my ear. The clock strikes twice, the sound brings me back to the present and he groans as I break away from him. One look at the silent plea in his eyes makes mepull him back to me, and I whisper his name as his hands roam over my body, the almost silent sound of silk against skin as he lifts up my shirt, his fingers dragging against my ribs, his faint stubble against my cheek, every sound is magnified, but it just him and me, every other noise fades into the background.

He has always had a way of breaking into the noise and creating stillness. People can be screaming all around me, phones ringing, people demanding and all he has to do is touch me and everything goes quiet, everything except him, I am all to aware of him.

He is sleeping gently now, in front of the still crackling fire, the gentle rain on the window slowly increases in volume and the sound of thunder breaks into the room and I sit bolt up right, his gentle snoring doing nothing to dispel my irrational childish fear that for some reason only creeps back when he is with me. His hand reaches for mine and he pulls me back down to him, places my ear over his heart and his hand over my other ear, blocking out the thunder and the rain drumming on the window. All I can hear is his heart beat, it lulls me to sleep, the steady rhythm echoing around my mind, reaching every corner. Its my favourite noise in the world and I don't mind the rain so much anymore.

* * *

_V!_

_xox_


	5. Smell

Smell

* * *

Smell or olfaction is the other "chemical" sense. Unlike taste, there are hundreds of olfactory receptors, each binding to a particular molecular feature. Odor molecules possess a variety of features and thus excite specific receptors more or less strongly. This combination of excitatory signals from different receptors makes up what we perceive as the molecule's smell.

The scent of her hair fills my nostrils as it falls in front of her face as she leans over me. I run my fingers through it, knowing that the scent will linger on them for ages, even after she has gone. It lingers everywhere, on my pillow, on my hands, in the air all around my house, creeping into every crevice making it almost impossible to get her out of my mind. Not that I want her to get out, she is firmly implanted back in there and I don't know of anything that will enable her to leave.

I have never been able to adequately describe the scent of her; it's a mixture of her exotic, expensive perfume, her fresh smelling shampoo and the delicate scent of her skin. I can describe the individual components but the mixture of them is what makes it unique to her, what makes it impossible to ignore, however hard I used to try. I have given up the fight now, willingly surrendered and let the scent of her surround my life. Its even better than coffee, the smell of her, better than freshly brewed coffee, better than the smell of wood, better than the smell of the best bourbon in the world.

I run my fingers through her hair again, and she arches her neck, exposing her throat. I place my lips against the hollow at the base and breathe in. Somewhere between the soft, flowery, feminine scent and the exotic scent I swear I can almost smell desire. Probably a mixture of both hers, and mine because right now I desire nothing more than her. Not that anyone could blame me. She lowers her head and plants her lips firmly against mine, invading my mouth with her tongue, almost melting into me until I can't distinguish whose moans are whose.

The heady scent of sex fills the room as she runs her hands through the hair on my chest, her hair falling in auburn curtain around her face yet again. It's a scent that lingers with hers, mingling with it, making me associate one with the other. I flip her and lean over her, and I pause, drinking in the sight of her face flushed with lust. She lifts a hand to my face and I lean into it and kiss her palm as I begin to move with her once again, climbing to the rhythm that we both know so well. I hear her breathe out my name and I join her in release. I collapse onto her, my face buried in her hair at the base of her neck, her hands running up and down my back. Her scent gets stronger at the pulse point in her neck and I gently run my lips over it, causing her to arch her neck again, comfortably numb and content, I slip out of her and pull her to me.

The rain hammers against the roof as she leaves the warmth of my bed and throws the window open, complaining that the heat in the bedroom is too much, the smell of wet earth and tarmac fills my nostrils as her skin breaks out in goose pimples. I grab the sheet from the bed and wrap it around both of us, pulling her firmly against my chest. She leans back and sighs. I breathe in her scent again, marveling in the fact that after all this time, it is still my favorite smell in the world.

"I love it." I hear her murmur and I turn her to face me, her face still flushed, "Your smell." She says, her voice still quiet, as if talking would break the spell that seems to have been weaved over the room.

"I was just thinking the same thing." I reply.

* * *

_I finished this at 1 in the morning, so sorry if you hate it!_

_V!_

_xox_


	6. Taste

Taste

* * *

�

Taste is a form of direct chemoreception and is one of the traditional five senses. It refers to the ability to detect the flavor of substances such as food and poisons. Classical taste sensations include sweet, salty, sour, and bitter.

The multiple finger shaped bruises on her thighs had gotten slowly worse through out the day and Jen was getting irritated at the morbid amusement that filled Gibbs's eyes whenever he noticed her wincing slightly as she crossed her legs, knowing full well what put the bruises there. 

* * *

�

_Fingers pressed into the delicate skin on her thighs as Gibbs lifted her up around his waist and roughly lowered her onto him, the ferocity in his eyes taking her breath away almost as much as the speed with which he had taken her. Knowing that she was going to have fierce bruises tomorrow did nothing to curb her enthusiasm as she explored his mouth with her tongue, tasting the faint trace of coffee that lingered there. _

�

She licked�her lips slowly as if she could still taste him, and a smile graced her lips for the first time that day. The taste of him had always been something that captivated her. The ever present faint trace of coffee that flavored his kisses, the traces of sawdust that lingered on his skin as she ran her tongue over his nipples, the occasional trace of gun oil, and the more than occasional oaky taste of bourbon that lingered on his lips as he kissed her mouth almost made her weak in the knees, there was nothing quiet like the taste of him, nothing in the world that made her as crazy. She sighed exasperatedly as she turned the lights of her office off, trying not to think too hard about the previous evening, trying not to think too hard about how much she wanted to taste him, and closed the door. She glanced down at the bullpen when she felt�his eyes on her and she could almost taste the hunger in the air. She gave him a wry smile and entered the elevator. It didn't surprise her when it stopped on his floor and the door opened to him grinning. He waited until the doors closed till he pushed her against the wall and deftly flicked the switch without taking his lips off hers. 

"I've been wanting to do that all day." He murmured against her mouth. She tasted of honey, she always had. It was a natural sweetness that mirrored her beauty and flavored her skin, mixing but not clashing with the faint saltiness of it. 

"How are the bruises?" He flashed her a grin and she scowled at him, straightening her blouse as she flicked the switch to start the elevator moving again. His fingers entwined with hers and he gave her hand a squeeze. She reluctantly smiled, not looking at him.

"Come have dinner with me." It was more of an order than a request and she nodded as he pulled her towards his car, pushing her shoulders hard against the door and continued his onslaught of her mouth, his tongue reaching into it, almost dancing with hers. She drew her hands through his hair and pulled his face away gently. 

"We're not going to make dinner if we don't move." She said her voice low with undisguised need. He nodded in agreement and opened the door�for her; she got in and watched as he climbed in next to her. He picked up her hand and kissed the knuckles; letting his tongue dart out to get his fix of her flavor, wishing that the taste would stay longer in his mouth so he wouldn't crave her quite as often as he did. 

* * *

�

His front door burst open, Gibbs followed unceremoniously with Jen in his arms, planting kisses all over his face, loving the pure masculine taste of his skin. He placed her on the counter in hte kitchen and she�grabbed a peach from the fruit bowl, Gibbs all but groaned at the sight of her teeth breaking the skin of the fruit. Juice ran out of it and down her chin, he�stopped�the hand that threatened to wipe the juice away and lowered his head, running his tongue over the trail of juice, savoring the taste of peaches and Jen, two tastes which complimented each other so well. He reached the corner of her mouth, running his tongue over her lips, still tasting the peach juice. She parted her lips slightly, her breath hot and sweet, giving him a taste of what he wanted before she pulled away, slid slowly off the counter, her hips grazing his as she did�and took another bite, licking at the juice that ran over her fingers, pulling each one into her mouth slowly, without breaking eye contact. He took her hand and bit into the peach, briefly wondering if it was wrong that the fruit in her hand was pressing all the right buttons and if it was only his imagination that the temperature in the kitchen has risen several degrees. Desire rose in the back of his throat, sweet and heavy, as she once again pulled her little finger into her mouth, her lips closing over it. She slowly pulled it back out and licked her lips. He had had enough and suddenly spun her around, pressing her into the sideboard, his hips pressed against her back and she felt his�desire hard against her, she shifted slightly and smiled when she heard his sharp intake of breath. His hands closed over hers on top of the counter as he lowered his head to her neck, kissing, licking and gently sucking on the delicate skin. She leaned her head back into his chest and one of his hands lefts hers. It founds its way to the waistband on her pants and hovered there, teasing her until she whispered his name and gripped his forearm, silently begging for more. He undid the buttons and snaked�his hand�inside, skimming the waistband on her panties, he fingered the hem before withdrawing. 

"Lets skip dinner." He whispered in her ear and pulled her towards the stairs without waiting for an answer.

* * *

�

Before she knew it, she was lying, flat on her back, with Gibbs's comforting weight pushing her into the mattress. His mouth left hers and kissed down her flat stomach. He looked up at her as he reached the bruises on her thighs. He winced slightly in apology, pausing before a wicked grin broke out across his face. 

"What?" She asked warily. His hands drifted lower and skimmed over the skin of her inner thighs, reveling in the sight of her hips lifting up to meet his hand and her bottom lip caught between her teeth. 

"I heard somewhere that licking bruises makes them better, something about stimulating blood flow." He said, his hands working magic between her thighs. How she managed to glare at him, he would never know, but as he lowered his head and his tongue licked the bruises made by his fingers, he didn't care about the look she gave him. All he cared about was the taste her, savoring the taste of her desire, the taste of her skin�as she bunched her hands into the duvet, wishing that they could stay this way.

* * *

_V!_

_xox_

_Thats the end of Sensory Overload, hope you all enjoyed it.� _


End file.
